Mother of Evil
by codenamelily
Summary: She gave birth to a son obsessed with the bloodline she desperately tried to escape. This is the story of Merope Gaunt.


Title: Mother of Evil  
Rating: T/PG-13  
Summary: She gave birth to a son obsessed with the bloodline she desperately tried to escape. This is the story of Merope Gaunt.  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Harry Potter series or any recognizable characters from the books. I own my plot ideas and original concepts.  
Spoilers: Hopefully only HBP. This takes place before any of the books are written but is based on information in HBP.  
A/N: This is just the prologue and a _fictional_ author's note at the end. Please review with your thoughts.

**Prologue**

The town of Little Hangleton had not seen a snowstorm like this for nearly 200 years. During the day, the winds had tossed the snow so violently that it whipped the faces of the travelers who were foolish enough to brave the conditions. By four o'clock the village's narrow streets were deserted and the flickering fires in the houses couldn't be seen more than a few feet away from the windows. Then, by seven o'clock, carriages seemed to appear like ghosts through the blowing snow as well-dressed party-goers layered themselves in thick overcoats and traveled to the town's formal New Year's Eve party.

As night fell the snow stopped but the wind howled as painstakingly as ever. The poorer families huddled together for warmth and, though the silhouette could barely be seen, glared toward the grand manor that was the Riddle House.

The occupants of said house were sitting comfortably in the parlor, enjoying the gentle roar of the fire in the grate (though that was the only thing they were really enjoying, as the mood was quite tense). Mr. Riddle was a proud man to the point that he looked down upon everyone but his own family. He was in his fifties, and he was a handsome man. His black hair was just beginning to show distinguished salt-and-pepper signs, and he had the build of a man twenty years his junior. Madame Riddle (she refused to be called "Missus" – it made her sound too old, she said, and too poor, and she might as well show off some of her French heritage) was younger, not even forty yet, and very beautiful. She had spent most of her life waiting to be in her twenties, and was now spending the rest of her life trying to stay that way. Her posture was perfect, and she sat in a dark green armchair with her shoulders back and spine straight, directly across from her husband.

Between them, on a matching green loveseat, sat the Riddle's only child, Tom, and his bride-to-be Cecilia. Tom had extraordinarily defined features – obviously from his mother – and the same build as his father. His hair was swept casually to the side and his dark eyes reflected the shifting fire at which he stared. Cecilia sat to his right, closest to Madame Riddle, staring blankly at the portraits on the wall. Like everyone else in the room, she was beautiful, and had long blonde hair and creamy skin. Each of the Riddles and Cecilia were wearing the finest clothes money could buy, looking exactly like they were: rich and incredibly stuck-up.

No one in this room was smiling.

"I was cursed, Father. Bewitched," Tom finally spoke up, moving his eyes away from the fire to plead with Mr. Riddle. "I can hardly remember the past year."

"It's been three months since you got back," his father snapped. "No one believe this nancy tale you've been weaving. You've tarnished the entire family's reputation."

"You knew what those people were like." Madame Riddle glared at her son. "Living in that tiny little shack they called a house… how could you run off with something like that? She was one of… one of _them_."

"I knew what they were like!" Tom exclaimed. "Always hissing at each other, always nailing snakes to the door. They're strange people, Mother. I don't know how she did it, I don't even know where I went! She… she tricked me!"

"Or else she must be a witch," Cecilia added in softly, her pretty face twisted in contempt. These were the first words she'd spoken that evening.

"Don't encourage him, Cecilia," Mr. Riddle interrupted as Tom opened his mouth to speak. "He's tried that tale."

"You're just lucky Cecilia will still marry you," Madame Riddle continued, as if no one had spoken. "At least that much was saved." Cecilia said nothing at this, knowing well that it was only for the large inheritance she knew Tom was getting that kept her around. She'd say anything to cover up that fact – she had many times, already, when asked why she would ever go back to that crazy Riddle boy. "Love will prevail," she'd replied once. Another time it was "Everyone makes mistakes."

"We've decided to move your wedding date up," Mr. Riddle stated. "You'll marry on the tenth of January."

"That's only a week and a half from now!" Tom exclaimed. Even Cecilia looked mildly surprised. "We're not prepared."

"Well, prepare then!" snapped his father. "You know how anxious your mother and I have been. Any day now that little tramp is bound to come back here – with a bastard child, no doubt – and ruin the little that we have left!"

Madame Riddle rose from her chair. "That's all we needed to talk about. Now, let's go to the party."

Mr. Riddle needn't have worried about the prospect of Tom's surprise lover returning, however. As he spoke, an unattractive young girl was stumbling about the streets of London, tears streaming down her wind-burnt face. Her dangling, lanky hair whipped around her head, stinging her cheeks and blocking the little vision she had.

She wore the simplest of rags and her shoes had holes in them. Her hands clutched a pregnant belly that protruded unnaturally from her skeletal frame. Every few minutes she would stumble or fall against the building nearest to her and let out a wail that rivaled the shrieking wind. Then she would breathe heavily and push herself up, repeating her actions until she reached the building she was looking for. Madly she ran toward it, but as she staggered up the stone steps a wave of pain swept through her abdomen, and she fell agonizingly, a wild scream retching through her throat as she lay against the steps. Her breath came in sharp gasps and the girl couldn't even lift her tired body to make it to the door.

"No!" she cried to herself. She hadn't gone all this way to lay dying on the stairs, and so she tore one tattered shoe from her aching feet and hurled it at the door. It landed in the snow after making a dull 'thunk' against the wood. "Help me!" she screamed, and for a moment she though no one would come. She was about to reach down and get her other shoe when the great wood door swung upon to reveal the outline of a large-set woman in the warm glow.

"Help…" she whispered desperately, and for a moment the woman seemed taken aback by the figure on her steps. She froze for a moment, then rushed forward to help the girl.

"Gwendolyn! Remy!" she screeched as she helped the girl stand. "Come here, this girls havin' a baby!"

Once she was inside, the girl collapsed onto a wooden chair near the door. Her eyes were closed, and the woman who had opened the door feared she was dead, for the labored breathing she had heard earlier had ceased to silence.

"Miss?" she whispered. There was a pause in which the woman thought she really _was_ dead, but the girl slowly opened her eyes and gasped a breath. Instead of being relieved, the woman recoiled slightly. Both of the girl's murky brown eyes stared in opposite directions, and her anorexic frame, ragged clothing, and matted hair only made her look even more distressing. The woman recovered from her shock as feet pounded into the room.

"What be the p'oblem, Ma'm Smith?" Gwendolyn cried. Mrs. Smith glared at the lanky black girl before motioning frantically at the girl on the chair. Remy crashed into the room after Gwendolyn, and stopped short at the sight of the girl breathing heavily. She turned immediately to leave the room.

"I'll get some hot water on the kettle!" she shouted as she left. Mrs. Smith grabbed the girl's shoulder.

"What's you're name, miss?" But the girl didn't respond, just hunched over again and wailed as another contraction shook her body. "Oh, never mind that, dear – Gwendolyn, help me! – you'll have to come to a bed, it's just a few steps from here…"

The girl didn't want to get up but between Gwendolyn and Mrs. Smith, they managed to drag her unwilling body to the nearest room. As they tripped through the doorframe, the girl made to collapse again, but Mrs. Smith caught her and pulled her to the bed. The girl let out a terrible shriek and writhed in Mrs. Smith's arms before Gwendolyn was able to help her onto the bed.

"Miss, t'ain't good for ya to be wrigglin' like dat durin' labor!" The girl fell against a thin pillow, her extreme exhaustion keeping her from pushing Gwendolyn back.

Remy rushed into the room carrying the hot water and a kit full of medical supplies. The girl was screaming again. "She'll be wakin' the whole orphanage!" Gwendolyn cried. Mrs. Smith shot her a disgusted look and went about the routine she'd known as a midwife.

The contractions were closer together now, and the girl was tired. Even her screams had become smaller and sounded painfully worn out. Mrs. Smith grabbed the girl's hand.

"It'll only be a short time now, dear," she said. "Try and be strong, for your baby. I'll bet it'll be a darling one."

The words stirred something in the girl, just as Mrs. Smith had hoped. Remy helped her sit up and Gwendolyn put a damp cloth against her forehead.

It was only a few more minutes when the girl's tired gasps turned into aching screeches. "Push, girl! Push!" Mrs. Smith yelled. Remy grabbed the ratty dress out of Mrs. Smith's way and for a fleeting moment nearly retched at the sight of the girl's skin stretched taught against her bones. She turned away and held the girl's hand.

Mrs. Smith had never seen someone go through such a painful birth. The girl was unnaturally thin, to the point that it would take some kind of magic for the baby to be born alive. She didn't voice this, but Mrs. Smith fully expected to be burying a stillborn in the morning.

When the baby was finally out, Mrs. Smith looked down at it. A boy, his eyes closed and his body still. She bowed her head, knowing the girl would be devastated. She took him to the side, washing his tiny face off, and she suddenly shrieked as his eyes popped open and he let out a wail louder than anything his mother had let out.

"He's alive!" she cried, and Remy let out an unconventional whoop. The girl lay still on the bed, panting heavily, and Gwendolyn smiled and wrapped an arm around bony shoulders.

"Cong'atulation, Miss! It be a boy!" The girl looked up and stretched an arm out, seeming incapable of speech. "Ma'm Smith, let de girl hold 'im!"

Remy, still smiling, helped clean the girl up. "I hope he looks like his papa." Looking up, Remy saw the girl looking at her, her mouth still open with the reminisce of hoarse whispers on her tongue. She couldn't help but stare at her eyes, and offered a silent prayer that the girl was right.

"I'm sure he'll be a beautiful child," Remy replied, smiling sweetly at the girl. Studying her, she realized that the girl couldn't have been more than a year or two older than herself. "Mrs. Smith, could we see the baby?"

Wrapping him gently, Mrs. Smith stared down at the child. Besides the first wail, he hadn't made a sound, just watched her with big, dark eyes. She couldn't even call them brown, because she couldn't tell where the iris ended and his pupil began. He seemed unnaturally aware for a baby, especially one that was only seconds old. She shook her head.

"Here he is, miss," Mrs. Smith said, presenting the bundle of blankets to her. The girl shakily took him, and Mrs. Smith frowned. He looked like a regular new-born baby, now. Her tired imagination, that was what it was.

"Where be his papa?" Gwendolyn asked. Remy nudged her harshly. The girl looked up at Remy.

"His name…" she whispered, her lips dry and chapped. Remy nodded.

"Go on, miss. We'll take it down," she told the girl.

"Tom," she panted, "for his father. Then Marvolo, for – " an aching cough – "for my father. And his surname, Riddle."

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," Mrs. Smith repeated, taking the name down.

"Wonder if they's from a circus?" Gwendolyn muttered to Remy, who nudged her again.

"And your name, miss?" Mrs. Smith asked. But the girl closed her eyes and said nothing. "Miss? Will anyone be coming for you and the baby?"

Remy put her hand on the girl's, then ripped it away as if stung.

"She's… c-cold," Remy stuttered. "Mrs. Smith, I think she's dead!"

"She can't be!" Mrs. Smith responded. "Remy, how stupid can you be? She was freezing outside, that's why she's cold."

"Dead people don't cool tha' fast," Gwendolyn added. "It take time."

"But…" Remy stammered.

Mrs. Smith rolled her eyes and grabbed the girl's wrist – indeed, it was like ice – and tried to find a pulse. Her own heart skipped a beat when she found nothing. She lay her head near the girl's nose, trying to listen for breath. After a moment she stood up and looked at Remy.

"I suppose we'll have to register the child," she said in disbelief. Remy and Gwendolyn bowed their heads, muttering silent prayers. "Tom Marvolo Riddle… strange... perhaps someone will come for him in the morning." She shook her head. "Gwendolyn, clear out a spot in the nursery for the child. Someone will have to stay with him tonight."

By the time they got the baby Tom into the nursery, Mrs. Smith had forgotten all about the strangeness of Tom's first moments in the world. She told Remy to get herself dressed for bed and then go to the nursery for the night, and went to place the child into a crib. He looked up at her as she lay him down, and the second he was in the crib closed his eyes. Mrs. Smith smiled. He was a good baby, at least.

Turning to leave the room, she nearly had the door opened when she heard a strange giggle from behind her. With her heart pattering nervously and a cold wave enveloping her, Mrs. Smith looked back at the crib.

The child was sitting straight up so Mrs. Smith could see him. This was frightening enough, as the child wasn't yet two hours old, and the fact that he seemed to be floating – _floating_? Mrs. Smith thought wildly – barely made her jump. It was the child's black, black eyes… or at least, what had used to be black, black eyes.

Mrs. Smith screamed and ran from the room, seeing nothing in front of her but the image of baby Tom floating above his crib, his eyes scarlet, with a wicked smile on his face. Not a smile. It was a terrible, malevolent smirk.

Remy discovered Mrs. Smith lying on the landing of the main level stairs the next morning, her neck broken.

**Before Reading, Please Note:**

_If Albus Dumbledore thought that the life of Lord Voldemort was difficult to research, he has no idea the painstaking process it took to compile the little information in existence about one Merope Gaunt. However, that was most lucky, as though Merope Gaunt's life offers interest and insight unto the circumstances of Voldemort's life, the life story of Voldemort was essential to his final demise._

_Much of Merope Gaunt's life as told in this compilation is guesswork. The only solid information regarding Miss Gaunt is generally just of her family line. Descendents of the legendary Salazar Slytherin, Merope Gaunt was one of the final pureblood line. The Gaunt family practiced methods of incest to keep their bloodline "pure," which ultimately led to the annihilation of most of the family due to disease. Violence and insanity also ran rampant through their bloodline, so it should be noted that like giants, the Gaunt family also killed each other off._

_Merope Gaunt's family lived in Little Hangleton, in a small shack off the road into town. Merope's mother, Mindina Gaunt, died when her children were young, leaving father Marvolo to care for Merope and her younger brother Morfin. Marvolo did not work and the family was destitute (the fortune that the Gaunts enjoyed had been squandered generations prior to Merope's existence). The only possessions of any value were priceless, however neither the Gaunt family ring nor the locket bearing Salazar Slytherin's mark have ever been found. The last thing heard of them is that Lord Voldemort had used or destroyed them in his quest for immortality. _

_Other than this basic information, the only other verified fact of the Gaunt family was that they were all Parselmouths. _

_Now, like with all magic, it is time to dive into the depths of the unknown. This story is based on the memoirs of Merope Gaunt, her diaries discovered when the Gaunt house was demolished, as well as some personal memories of those who had contact with the Gaunts. The rest is merely educated guesswork of what took place between each event._

_--The Author_


End file.
